


tell me, o muse, of the complicated man

by xahra99



Series: Odyssey [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Confrontations, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: 1716. "Mr. McGraw, how did my father die?"Abigail Ashe meets Flint in Savannah and confronts him about her father's death. Post series. Complete.





	tell me, o muse, of the complicated man

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so here it is, the fic series nobody asked for for a programme that finished last year because I like to watch entire series on Amazon rather than waiting for each episode to come out. Part six of eight Black Sails character studies/missing scenes. Flint is still hard to write, but Abigail is a pretty awesome character. Things I learned writing this fic: Chocolate houses were at least common in England at this time, and (unlike coffee-houses) were reasonably respectable places for ladies. Also, Savannah, Georgia didn't actually exist during this time period (it was founded in 1733). Also, the title quote was made for Flint.  
> This fic has no warnings, for once.  
> The title quotes are from the Odyssey, from both Emily Wilson's and the Penguin translation (in this case both) because I'm a massive geek.

“Tell me, O muse, of the complicated man.”-The Odyssey

 

Abigail meets Flint.

 

Abigail: “From across an ocean, it is hard to know what the New World is. All I knew were the stories I was told of monsters and valiant men.”

 

_Savannah, 1716_

 

Abigail sees Flint in the street.

It takes her a moment to recognize him. Captain Flint, the butcher of Charlestown, calmly walking along the road in Savannah with a handful of men as if he has every right to be there. It is impossible-and yet it is true.

Abigail believes only what she can see with her own two eyes, and her eyes tell her that the man before her is indeed Captain Flint. He is not quite as she remembers. His face is weary. Threads of silver streak his Judas-coloured hair. He walks as if some indefinable weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Abigail escaped the Charlestown massacre, but she has heard the story many times. Most survivors of the incident are happy to divulge every bloody detail, but every story contradicts another. Perhaps there were two pirates in Charlestown that day, perhaps there were two hundred. Perhaps the townsfolk fought back bravely; perhaps they cowered and ran as their lives collapsed around them. Perhaps some did both. Abigail must hear the tale from somebody she trusts to tell the truth.

She must face Flint. In a moment he will have vanished, and her last chance will be lost.

“Captain!” she calls out, clutching her basket to her chest as if to shield herself from all the world. Perhaps Flint will not hear. Perhaps the noises of the street will drown out the sound of her voice. “Captain!”

Flint turns and stares at Abigail. He frowns as if he is irritated with himself for responding to his title. “I am no captain.”

She chides herself. “My pardon, sir. You seemed to me a man-the sort of man who would know something of the sea.”

“You are mistaken, miss,” he says.

“Abigail,” she says quickly. “Abigail Ashe. And yours?”

“My name is James McGraw.”

Abigail nods to the men on either side of him. She recognizes the man standing to his right, his quartermaster, the one they call Silver. There are three more men she does not know. No sign of Billy. “And your companions?”

Silver gives Flint a sidelong glance. He hops forwards, shifting his weight as he holds out his hand. His palm is calloused and dry, but clean, not the sort of hand she would expect from a pirate. “My name is Smith.”

Abigail takes his palm, and Silver presses his lips to the back of her hand. She blushes and glances around at the three other men, hoping they don’t follow suit, but the other pirates don’t introduce themselves. They are clad soberly in shirts, plain breeches and cravats that blend into the Savannah streets, and yet Abigail knows they do not belong here.  She knows she could be in danger but, somehow, she does not think she is.

Flint frowns at her. Silver’s expression is open and faintly bewildered, though Abigail knows Flint’s quartermaster well enough to guess that his expression is most likely a façade.  She glances from one face from another. They must look so strange, the six of them, standing in the road in silence. Somebody will notice. She must speak, must seize this moment before it slips away forever.

“You look familiar,” she tells Flint. “As if I knew your face from years ago, when I was but a child.”

Flint does not take Abigail’s conversational bait. His brow furrows and his eyes dart away to the open road behind them. Abigail can tell he is about to make a polite apology, voice his excuses and leave.

She will not have it. She steps across the muddy street towards the little group, lowers her voice and tells Flint “You owe me.”

Flint raises one eyebrow.

“You owe me, sir,” Abigail repeats, drawing closer to the little band of pirates. Her shoes are drowned in mud. They will have to be cleaned, but she is as close to Flint now as she dares. His clothes are sorely travel-stained, and he pays no heed to the ruts and the mud puddles. She could catch his arm or poke him with her finger in the chest if she wanted to, though there are things one does not do in any public street, even in the Colonies.  “You owe me a debt. I would request a moment of your time.”

Flint hesitates. His gaze slides away and his eyes fix on the horizon. Then he turns back to Abigail as if she has cast a hook that is buried in his heart. He nods.

Silver sighs and shakes his head. His hair is longer now and the strands whip across his face in the breeze. “We have no time.”

“We have time for this,” snaps Flint.

Silver backs down. There is a strange dynamic between Flint and Silver. Something has changed. Abigail can no longer tell which of them is in charge. Their companions glance from one man to the other as if they too have their doubts.

Silver jerks his head. “Go wait with the horses,” he commands them. “We won’t be long.”

Abigail inclines her head. The men squelch away along the muddy street.

“Miss Ashe,” Flint says quietly. “I hope you understand that this conversation should not be carried out in daylight in the street.”

Abigail nods. She wields her basket like a shield, a reminder of domesticity, before she was kidnapped by pirates and her father was murdered and her whole life went brutally awry. She wonders where to take them. Her present existence is hopelessly unsuited to clandestine meetings. Her quandary must clearly show upon her face, for Flint suggests “A chocolate-house will do.”

Abigail’s previous experience in subterfuge extends to hiding surreptitious purchases of ribbons from her guardian. She pauses a moment to steady her voice and says, “Follow me.”

She takes them both to William’s. The hour is fortunate, and the chocolate-house is relatively quiet. Abigail finds the three of them all a seat as far as she can get from anyone who might listen. The house is furnished like any well-used drawing room, with pictures on the walls, highly polished floor-boards, and elegant wooden furnishings. The chocolate cauldron bubbles at the counter, filling the air with an sweet, exotic scent that nearly swamps the smell of years of tobacco smoke.

Silver and Flint take their seats. Flint orders chocolate for them all. He leans back in his chair as if he has been born there. No doubt the Hamiltons frequented chocolate-houses in London. Silver seems less at ease. He casts suspicious glances round the room and fingers the cutlery as if he’s pricing each item. 

Abigail waits until their chocolate arrives before speaking. She dares not be too eager. She taps her spoon on the table impatiently as the maid pours chocolate à la mode, raising the pot theatrically so that a stream of dark liquid cascades into each cup. When each cup is full Abigail forces a smile. “Thank you.” 

The maid sniffs and flounces off. Abigail picks up her spoon between thumb and index finger and desultorily stirs her chocolate. “Mr McGraw,” she begins.

He nods. “Miss Ashe.”

Abigail sips her chocolate. The drink is very sweet. She winces. “Let me speak clearly,” she says above the clatter of spoons and the murmur of conversation. “I know that you were at Charlestown.”

Flint leans forward in his chair. He rests his elbows on the table and steeples his hands beneath his chin. His eyes and forehead are heavily lined, as if he’s spent his life staring at the sun. The silver stud is missing from his left ear. Perhaps the earring was another piece of the pirate captain’s accoutrements, shed with his persona. “That’s true.”

Abigail swallows. Her fingers tighten round her chocolate cup. “Mr McGraw, how did my father die?”

 Flint frowns. Silver winces. Abigail looks from one face to the other.

“You do not need to hear this.” Flint says after a long pause. “Are you certain that you want to?”

Abigail sips her drink without tasting the chocolate. “Yes,” she says. The word leaves her lips like a shot from a gun’ once spoken and never taken back. 

Flint nods. His mouth tightens. “I killed him.”

“How?”

“It was no accident.”

“I never thought it was,” she says. “For months I wondered. There were so many ways my father could have died that day, and yet I found that I believed only one of them. I knew you would murder him from the moment I saw Lady Hamilton’s body on the carpet.”

“I ran him through in Charlestown square and forced him to gaze on Miranda’s body as he died.” Flint says roughly. “We burned Charlestown to the ground. At the time, it was my pleasure.”

“Would you have done the same if you had not known I had been sent to the Ashfords in Savannah?”

Flint nods. “I am afraid to say I would.”

They face each other across the table, cutlery arrayed like swords and daggers across the starched tablecloth between them. Silver’s gaze darts from Flint to Abigail and back again. He has not touched his chocolate. “Is this wise?” 

“Not wise, perhaps,” says Flint, “but necessary.”

Silver shakes his head. “Think of who I have found.” he tells Flint. “No offence, Miss Ashe, but I did not put myself to all this trouble to have us both discovered so close to our goal.”

“Silence, Silver.” Flint holds up his hand. He wears no rings, though Abigail can see the marks where they have been removed. “Leave us for a moment.”

Silver gives them both a narrow glare. “I am quite certain I should stay.”

“And I am equally determined that you go,” Flint says.

“I think it best,” says Abigail.

Strangely enough, Silver acquiesces, not to Flint’s command but to Abigail’s wishes. He exhales with a snort, pushes back his chair, and stands. “I’ll be outside,” he says to Flint. “Don’t be too long.”

He leaves. A cloak of silence drapes across their table. Abigail sets her cup down. “Thank you, sir,” she says quietly.

Flint raises one eyebrow. “You owe me nothing,” he says vehemently. “I’m sorry for your loss. I do regret it. I am deeply sorry for all the trials you suffered.”

“I cannot help but feel that I am in some way responsible,” says Abigail. “I am told that Captain Vane came to possess my journal. That excerpts were read out at your trial as a testimony. Excerpts in which I voiced my doubts about my father, and my faith in you.”   

“Has your opinion changed?”

Abigail meets his eyes and slowly shakes her head. “Men die in a war. It is all over now. I hope that we can find some peace between us.”

Flint grimaces. “So we may all hope.”

Silence falls again. Abigail perches nervously on the very edge of her seat. She is no longer afraid of Flint and Silver, but as the clock ticks on she worries that her foster mother may hear of her strange meeting. Chocolate-houses are famously inclusive places, where English merchants sit next to fishmongers fresh from the docks, but there are few women customers in William’s and those women that frequent the place are all decorous matrons. Flint and Abigail make a strange pair. Flint is old enough to be her father, but such marriages are not unusual in the Colonies, where the English sicken easily, and one man may bury several wives. She hopes she can excuse him as an old acquaintance from London should anybody question them. 

“It feels so strange,” she says to Flint. “You are the only one who whom I may speak freely of my father. You were his great friend in London when I was but a I child.”

Flint half-smiles. His countenance relaxes for a moment, and Abigail sees the ghost of the English officer she still remembers in his face. Flint must have been very young back then, though to her he seemed terribly old. “I still recall those days.”

“I too. My father taught me many things. To speak French, play piano and to tell the truth. The truth was always paramount.”

“To you perhaps,” Flint mutters.

“I realize he had a secret life.” says Abigail. “The more I know of him the more I realize that many of his business dealings were less than honest. And yet he always told the truth to me. Or so I do believe. “

Flint pushes away his own. “You have always done credit to your father. More credit that he perhaps deserved.”

Abigail accepts the compliment in the spirit in which is has been spoken. She knows that she should hate him.  She should hate all of them. But nothing in life is as simple as it seems, and Flint is a very complicated man. She remembers the surprise she felt on the Spanish galleon as she learned of the pirates’ lives. Of Billy Bones. “Do you have news of Nassau? I hear the town has become quite respectable.”

Flint grimaces. “It took the death of Captain Flint to make it so. Many of the pirates there are dead.”

“Do you have news of William-Billy?”

Flint shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

The news strikes Abigail harder than she had anticipated. She looks down at the stained tablecloth and brushes off some crumbs. Tears prickle in the corners of her eyes. It is ridiculous, to cry for the death of a pirate she never really knew when she hardly shed a tear for her father. Perhaps Mrs Ashford is right. Perhaps she really is a heartless creature.

Flint leans over the table and grips her hand. “Pirates live longer in fiction than in fact,” he says gravely.

Abigail nods. Flint’s palm is calloused from both sword and pen and larger than she has expected. She holds onto him for as long as she dares. “I thank you for your time. And for your honesty. Now I must go.”

“One moment.”

Abigail looks at him in surprise. She steals a glance at Silver, who is still waiting for Flint outside the window. “Yes?”

“Tell me your news, Miss Ashe. How have you been?”

It has been so long since anyone has been interested in Abigail’s plans. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a matter in which you may be some assistance.” Flint says, as it is nothing. “What are your intentions?”

“Me? I am going to Philadelphia. The Ashfords think I may make a more suitable match there.”

“Philadelphia?” Flint frowns as if it Pennsylvania is the ends of the earth. “Are you sure you want to go?”

“Why would I not? There are many books and men of much learning. I want to be an educated woman like Lady Hamilton. I will not return to Charlestown, Mr McGraw, or to Savannah. This world is a Pandora’s Box. My father -and Captain Flint- opened my eyes to the evil within.” She meets his eyes. “Things need to change. We all must make it so.”

Flint nods as if Abigail has pleased him but says nothing. It surprises her how badly she wants his good opinion. “What do you think?” 

“I have a proposition for you.”

Abigail knows she should rebuff him. Instead she nods. “Continue.”

“Do you recall Lord Thomas Hamilton?”

“Miranda’s husband?”

“The very one.”

“I do.” she says.

And there, in William’s chocolate-house, Flint tells her everything. He tells her all about her father. About the Hamiltons. How the three of them were disgraced. How her father betrayed them. How Thomas was committed-unjustly-to Bedlam-and how he killed himself. And then he tells her of a plantation in Savannah, where English nobles send those they never wish to hear from ever again, and of a rumour that Thomas Hamilton might really be alive.

Abigail lifts her spoon and calls for another cup of chocolate. “You said that I could help you,” she says before the maid arrives. “Tell me how.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Why not check out some of my other finely-crafted fics? Next up: Flint and Thomas escape from prison, awesomely.


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